


Heaven or Las Vegas

by sevenfists



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-28
Updated: 2008-07-28
Packaged: 2018-10-19 06:56:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10634634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfists/pseuds/sevenfists
Summary: Somehow they end up doing Warped again. Bob doesn't know all the details, but he's pretty sure it's Gerard's fault. He doesn't mind, really; all he's got waiting for him in Chicago is an empty apartment and his mom's home cooking, and he loves that woman, but she can't even cook bacon in the microwave without setting off the smoke detector. Ray and Mikey are both pissed about being on tour for another three months, but Bob's cool; he can roll with it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set during an imaginary and highly improbable Warped Tour. Thanks to mcee for the beta.

Somehow they end up doing Warped again. Bob doesn't know all the details, but he's pretty sure it's Gerard's fault. He doesn't mind, really; all he's got waiting for him in Chicago is an empty apartment and his mom's home cooking, and he loves that woman, but she can't even cook bacon in the microwave without setting off the smoke detector. Ray and Mikey are both pissed about being on tour for another three months, but Bob's cool; he can roll with it.

He rolls so well that he doesn't even know who else is on tour with them until they show up on the first day and two of those kids from Panic At The Disco are riding around on somebody's trick bike, one of them perched on the handlebars and hollering shit about world domination.

"It's gonna be a long summer," Bob mutters.

"You said it," Ray says. "We have to keep Frankie away from Urie, okay? Let's make a pact."

Bob's only met Panic a few times and he can't quite remember which one is Urie, but he's got his suspicions. "Sure," he says.

"I'm the king of the world!" the kid on the handlebars yells.

Naturally he turns out to be Brendon Urie. He falls off the bike, makes the other kid kiss his skinned elbow, gets a piggy-back ride from a big dude with lots of tattoos, and then comes loping across the grass, grinning and shaking his hair out of his eyes. "What's up, My Chem!" he says, and sticks out a hand for Ray to shake. "You guys are awesome, fuck, you're my shredding hero, Ray Toro—"

Ray's looking a little strained, and Bob takes pity on him and says, "You're Brendon, right?"

Urie beams. "You remembered my name! I'm so honored. Wait until Ryan hears, he's going to _piss his pants_ —"

"Wow," Ray says.

"So where's the rest of your motley band of minstrels?" Urie asks. "When Ryan heard that you guys were gonna be on tour with us, I swear to God, I thought he was going to have an aneurysm on the spot. He's a _huge_ fan, it's really kind of adorable."

"Oh. Um, I think they're still on the bus," Bob says. Asleep, as far as he knows. He and Ray spend a lot of time on tour doing normal shit like keeping regular hours and interacting with other people, and most of that involves staying away from the bus, which is a pit of unwashed Way and Frankie acting like a gerbil on crack.

"Oh," Brendon says, and looks dejected for just a moment, but then he turns around and starts waving frantically at the other kid. "Spencer! Spencer, come over here!"

Spencer wanders over, squinting a little, and shakes hands with Bob and Ray. "It's so cool that you guys are touring with us this summer," he says. "We're all really excited."

It makes Bob feel weird to have these kids, famous rock stars in their own right, acting like breathless fans. "Uh. Thanks. It's going to be a great tour."

"Yeah, as long as Frankie doesn't kidnap anyone's dog again," Ray says, and Bob laughs, remembering.

"Oh hey, hey, is that Pete?" Brendon asks, shielding his eyes with one hand and pointing at somebody near the food tent. "Shit, it's totally Pete! Okay, MCR, I must away, adieu," and he jogs off before Bob has time to respond.

Spencer laughs and rolls his eyes. "Sorry about that. He's kind of—I guess he's a little enthused about this tour. He's been like this for the past week. Ryan's about to throttle him."

Spencer turns out to be a pretty cool guy. Ray leaves to get sandwiches, but Bob and Spencer spend half an hour talking about drums, and Spencer's got some interesting ideas about ways to modify his kit. Then it's time for sound check and Bob's got other things on his mind, and he stops thinking about Panic altogether.

***

Bob likes touring, and he really likes doing festivals; he likes the camaraderie that develops when everyone is sweaty and unbathed and surviving on crappy sandwiches and beer. It's like going to summer camp, except with more debauchery and fewer authority figures. Bob's a big fan.

He spends the first few days getting back into the Warped rhythm: drinking too much, staying up too late, helping Frankie prank Fall Out Boy. Pete Wentz has a reputation for being the most gullible dude on the planet, and that hasn't changed since Bob last spent time with him. In the first two days alone, they fill Pete's sneakers with tuna fish and dye Hemingway pink, and they only stop there because Patrick puts his foot down.

"No," Patrick says, when he catches Frankie and Bob lurking around with a Super Soaker. "Absolutely not. My bus smells like something died on it. I don't know what you're planning now, Iero, but it had better not involve me or anyone I've ever loved."

Frankie pulls an elaborate face. "But _Patrick_! Come on, man, it's going to be so awesome, Pete's _face_ —"

"No," Patrick says, and crosses his arms. "Go bother Panic for a while."

Of course Frankie latches on to that idea, and he babbles about it all through lunch, while Bob and Ray are trying to play the Yellow Shoes game. "We could, like, take them by surprise and drug them," Frankie says, "and then we'll shave Ross's head and feed them to the wolves!"

"No," Bob says. "That's a stupid prank. Also, where the fuck are you going to find wolves?" He's mainly thinking about how he doesn't want to go head-to-head with a bunch of teenagers. Frankie's got a lot of energy, but he's not twenty-one anymore.

"Yellow shoes!" Ray hollers, and punches Bob on the arm.

"Ow," Bob says.

It's all par for the course, though, until Gerard decides that the tour needs a little more goddamn weirdness and takes things to the next level. He shuffles into the lounge on the morning of the fourth day and says, "I'm in love."

Bob doesn't look up. He's busy schooling Frankie's ass at Guitar Hero and he doesn't have time for distractions. "That's great," he says.

"Are you sure he's legal?" Frankie asks.

"That was _once_ ," Gerard says, "that was _one time_ , and I didn't know, okay, he absolutely looked way older than eighteen—"

Frankie takes his hand off the controller long enough to make chirping motions.

Bob generally does his best to ignore Gerard's antics, but the idiot talks about it nonstop all afternoon, and eventually enough of it seeps in past Bob's defenses for him to figure out that Gerard's had some sort of spasm and fallen head-over-heels for that Ryan Ross kid.

"You could be his _dad_!" Frankie says, and laughs so hard that Bob has to hold onto the back of his shirt to keep him from falling off the picnic table.

"Shut up," Gerard mumbles, lighting another cigarette. "Shut up. I'm not talking to any of you."

Bob spots Ross lurking around the side of the stage during their show, trying to be incognito with his huge sunglasses, but nobody else on tour is that skinny or wears clothing that ridiculous. It's actually kind of sweet. Bob sees the two of them walking away from the buses after the show, holding hands and leaning into each other; and whatever, Bob thinks it's an absurd situation, but he tends to approve of things that make Gerard happy.

An unexpected side effect is the way the rest of Panic are suddenly underfoot all the time. Ryan's a fixture on their bus within a week, shuffling around in his pajama pants in the mornings, but he's quiet and he doesn't take up much space, and Bob doesn't really mind him. The others are a different story. They're always hanging out with Pete or showing up at the MCR bus to drag Ryan off to sound check, and Urie without fail finds some excuse to hassle the shit out of Bob.

"Look, kid," Bob says, after Brendon's already stolen one of his hot dogs and is coming around for a second pass, "I already have to put up with with the guy who copyrighted small, hyperactive, and annoying, so just lay off, okay?"

"I heard that!" Frankie yells from the next picnic table over, and chucks his empty soda can at Bob's head.

"As you can see," Bob says to Brendon.

Urie pouts like a thirteen-year-old girl. "Harry wouldn't let me have any," he says. "And you have _three_." He pushes his lower lip out even further. Bob can't imagine that works on anyone, but it must, because otherwise Brendon wouldn't be trying it.

"I'm bigger than you are," Bob says. "And older. I need more food."

"Brendon!" Ryan calls, still in line at the food tent, turning and waving one arm over his head. "Hey!"

"He wants me to stop harassing you," Brendon says. "He told me I had to leave you alone or he'd make me sing the sweaty underwear song on stage."

"Maybe you should listen to him," Bob says. He's not sure what the sweaty underwear song is, but it sounds unpleasant.

"You're breaking my heart, Bob Bryar," Brendon says. "Our names both start with B. It's like we're related! You should be nicer to me."

"Uh-huh," Bob says, and then Ryan gets out of line and comes over to drag Urie away, so Bob gets to finish his hot dogs in peace.

***

"He's got a crush on you," Ryan says one morning over breakfast. It's just him and Bob in the front lounge—Ray's out doing his morning amble around camp, and the rest of the guys are still asleep. Bob and Ryan have gotten into the habit of eating together most mornings, and usually Bob doesn't mind; Ryan understands that talking before coffee should be done softly and in moderation, and sometimes they chat a little about music. It's a lot nicer than listening to Frankie go on and on about the bizarre dreams he had.

Bob shoves another bite of cereal in his mouth. Maybe if he keeps quiet, Ryan won't feel the need to elaborate.

"Brendon," Ryan says, because of course Bob has shit luck. "That's why he's been bothering you. He's not—usually he's a lot less irritating. He just gets this way when he wants someone's attention."

"Great," Bob says. "Thank you, Ross, now I have to be worrying about some kid's hurt feelings—"

"He's not a child," Ryan says, and flushes when Bob raises an eyebrow at him, but he's got that stubborn set to his jaw that Bob has learned to recognize and fear. "Whatever, just. I've been trying to keep him away from you, okay, so—just so you know."

"I need an antacid," Bob says. "You're lucky I like you."

"Oh," Ryan says.

Now that Bob knows what's up, it's painfully fucking obvious. Urie hovers around Bob like there's a rope connecting the two of them and he can't go beyond that defined orbit. He's backstage during most of MCR's shows, and at first Bob thinks it's just because Brendon likes their music, but then he catches Brendon watching him—not just casual interest, but _looking_ , eyes clear and intent. Bob gets it.

He thinks about saying something to Brendon, but then again, he didn't _ask_ Brendon to develop the hots for him. It's not like Bob's done anything to make Brendon think he might be interested. He's barely said three sentences to Urie since the start of the tour. It's not Bob's fucking responsibility.

He still feels guilty, though, which pisses him off. He steals Frankie's last pack of cigarettes and chain-smokes his way through it, camped out in a lawn chair by the food tent. This is the problem with Warped: somebody always tries to start drama (usually Gerard), and then Bob smokes too much, and Ray yells a lot about how Bob's going to destroy his lung capacity.

The other problem is that Bob can't stop thinking about it. Urie ignores him for a few days, and Bob's starting to wonder if Ryan's full of shit, but then Brendon's on the MCR bus one morning, wearing glasses and bickering with Ryan about who gets to finish off the cereal.

"Technically, _I_ should get to finish it, seeing as how I bought it," Bob says, cutting in to their good-natured argument.

Brendon turns his head and grins. "Bob Bryar! Will you play Mario Kart with me?"

"I'm going out for a smoke," Bob says, holding up his cigarettes as evidence.

"I'll come with you!" Urie says.

"You don't smoke," Ryan says, but Brendon's already getting up and heading for the door, way too fucking bushy-tailed for 9:00 in the morning. All Bob can do at that point is accept his fate.

Bob's expecting a verbal deluge, but Brendon doesn't actually say anything, just leans against the bus with his hands in his pockets and kicks at the grass. Bob gets halfway through his cigarette and Brendon still hasn't opened his mouth, so Bob says, "I thought you talked all the time."

Brendon laughs. "Not _all_ the time," he says. "But I'm sure I could come up with something, if you wanted."

It's not what Bob's expecting to hear. "Like what," he says.

"Fuck, I don't know. The use of metaphor in Emily Dickinson's poetry," Brendon says.

Bob raises his eyebrows. "No shit."

"I'm full of surprises," Brendon says, and then laughs and shakes his head. "Not really, dude. But, you know. We could talk about classical music or something. I have lots of ideas about Bach."

"Yeah, I bet you do," Bob says. He's not convinced, but maybe he should be; Ryan swears up and down that Urie's some sort of musical genius. "Didn't he write that opera about the Valkyries?"

Brendon frowns at him. "You're fucking with me, right?"

"I'm dead serious," Bob says, and manages not to grin.

***

Bob really likes Panic's security guy. Zack seems like a down-to-earth sort of dude. He and Bob start setting up lawn chairs outside Panic's bus every afternoon and having a couple of beers, and they trade stories about the small, hyperactive men of their acquaintance.

"Brendon put a goldfish in the toilet this morning," Zack says, and takes a sip of his beer. "I still don't know where he got it from." He looks haunted by the possibilities.

"Frankie downloaded bestiality porn onto Gee's computer," Bob says. "I've never heard a grown man scream like that."

"Horses?" Zack asks.

"Chickens," Bob says, and Zack winces.

They're quiet for a while, and then a scuffle breaks out near the food tent. Bob's pretty sure he can hear Ryan shouting. Zack sighs and stands up. "Duty calls," he says.

Bob raises his beer can in a salute.

It's a nice day: a breeze blowing, and Bob's in the shade, and he closes his eyes and dozes off until he's snapped back into consciousness by something cold and slick pressing against the back of his neck. "What the fuck," he says.

Urie drops into Zack's abandoned lawn chair and beams at Bob, Coke can clutched in one fist. "Bryar! My favorite surly drummer," he says.

"For fuck's sake," Bob says. "I was _napping_."

"Yeah, like an old person," Brendon says. "Only old people take naps, Bob, didn't anyone ever tell you that? You're like an old man sitting on his porch, like, drooling onto his flannel shirt."

Bob doesn't dignify that with a response. He pulls out his pack of smokes and lights up. He needs some fucking nicotine if he's going to survive this conversation.

"Smoking's bad for you!" Brendon chirps. He puts his Coke in the chair's cupholder and spins it around a few times.

"Don't even start with me, Urie, I know how much weed you smoke," Bob says.

"Well. True," Brendon says. "But it's not tobacco!"

Bob's not going to argue with that. He's got more important things to do, like smoke a few cigarettes and then help Frankie cut the crotch out of Gerard's favorite pair of jeans. They've got fifty bucks riding on whether Gee will wear those pants on stage anyway.

"So, um," Brendon says, and he's fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt, stretching the fabric between his fingers. The back of his neck's sunburned and starting to peel. "Are you—I was thinking maybe we could hang out sometime?"

Jesus Christ. Bob takes a drag off his cigarette and tries to think of a response. He doesn't want to hurt Urie's feelings, but he doesn't want to give the wrong impression, either. Bob doesn't do tour hook-ups, especially not with kids who are eight years younger than him. Urie's practically jailbait. "Me and Ray and Mikey are having a Mario Kart tournament this afternoon," he says, throwing the kid a bone: neutral ground, and it's not like he _dislikes_ Brendon. "You could come."

Brendon looks like Bob's just told him unicorns are real. "Seriously?" he says. "I can seriously play video games with you guys? Oh my God, that's awesome, I'm so—I'm a Mario Kart ninja, okay, I will be _awesome_ , you're totally going to be amazed by my skills."

"Uh-huh," Bob says. "We're starting at 1:30. If you're late, I'm giving your place to Cortez."

"I won't let you down!" Brendon says. "I promise!"

Brendon goes bounding off across the grass, and Bob watches him go, feeling like he's just sold his soul to the devil. If the devil were over-caffeinated and relentlessly cheerful. Brendon forgot his Coke; Bob pops the can open and claims it for his own. It's still cold.

***

"You should have _seen_ it, Jon, it was _epic_ ," Brendon says. "I went right, and then I went left! And then I kicked his motherfucking ass!"

"Huh," Jon says. "Whose?"

" _Everyone's_ ," Brendon says. "Are you doubting me?"

"Of course not," Jon says, grinning over the rim of his beer bottle. "I'm sure you're telling the whole truth, and nothing but."

"Mario Kart ninja my _ass_ ," Bob mutters.

Brendon presses one hand to his chest. "You said it was going to be our secret!"

Bob shrugs. "I lied."

"I can't believe it," Brendon says. Jon starts laughing, and Brendon leans over and wraps an arm around his neck, and they both topple off the picnic table onto the ground, Jon's beer spilling everywhere. Brendon shrieks with laughter. They roll around on the grass; Jon's flip-flops get kicked off, and dandelion fuzz gets stuck in Brendon's hair. Jon keeps trying to say something but he's laughing too hard to get it out.

Brendon disentangles finally and flops onto his back, flushed and giggling. His shirt's ridden up, and Bob finds himself looking without really meaning to. When he drags his eyes away, Brendon's watching him.

"Well, how about that," Jon says. His eyebrows are raised. Bob runs one hand over his head and wishes he had his fucking cigarettes.

"What?" Brendon asks. "How about what?"

"Oh, I just remembered that I'm supposed to help Spence steal Hemmy," Jon says. "You don't get to come."

Brendon pouts. "Why not!"

"You have to stay here and entertain Bob," Jon says, and he looks entirely too sly for Bob's peace of mind.

"You're so full of good ideas," Brendon says. He scrambles up to join Bob on the picnic table. "So, Bryar, are you ready to be entertained?"

"Do I have a choice?" Bob asks.

Jon smirks, and then he rolls to his feet and saunters off, hands in his pockets. Bob wants to kill him. Or—something. Something dramatic.

"So," Brendon says. He leans in, his shoulder pressing against Bob's, and chomps his teeth together like a kid imitating a shark. "We could play charades! Or make a fort underneath the picnic table! I think Spencer has some marshmallows, maybe we could build a fire and make s'mores and sing camp songs—"

He's clearly joking, but Bob's still torn between being amused and horrified. "You need to calm the fuck down," he says. "Don't make me put you over my knee."

"Um," Brendon says, and he looks away, and something about the set of his shoulders starts alarm bells ringing inside Bob's brain. Brendon's holding himself very carefully, like he's afraid to move too much or in the wrong way. It speaks volumes.

"Huh," Bob says.

"I should go," Brendon says. He still isn't looking at Bob. "Ryan wanted me to, uh. There's this song we're working on, so—"

"Yeah. Later," Bob says, and watches Brendon as he walks back toward the Panic bus, his shoulders pulled up toward his ears.

***

The thing is, Bob's pretty vanilla. He spent a couple of months fucking a guy who liked to tie him up sometimes, but that's been the extent of his experimentation. He's okay with that. As far as Bob's concerned, there are three basic sexual positions, and they all work just fine; why mess with perfection?

So he's a little confused when he's lying in his bunk that night, trying to block out Mikey's snoring and get to sleep, and he's letting his mind wander, just idle thoughts passing through his brain, and then he's thinking about Brendon pulling down his pants and bending over a table, looking back over his shoulder and smiling, saying, "Come on, Bob, you know I've been a bad boy—"

Aside from being corny as fuck, it's about _Urie_ , but Bob's hard anyway, and then he's sliding one hand into his boxers and taking care of business, and he's thinking about Brendon the whole time: his mouth, his ridiculous cowboy shirts, his goddamn _ass_. Bob won't lie to himself: he's been looking. Just _casually_ , though, not with intent, not with any intention of ever pushing Brendon into somebody's bunk and giving him exactly whatever it is he asks for—

"Shit," Bob mutters. His boxers are a mess. And his hand. And his _life_.

Brendon avoids him for the next three days. Bob tries to see is as a reprieve, but without the kid bugging him all the time, Bob's imagination is free to run wild. Mostly it runs in the direction of Brendon without pants on.

"Are you okay, dude?" Frankie asks, on day three. "I don't think you've blinked once in the last ten minutes."

"Uh," Bob says. His eyes do feel kind of dry, come to think of it. "Yeah, I'm. What?"

"Wow, okay, I'm staging an intervention," Frankie says. "We need to prank Wentz again, he tried to get clever and replace all my underwear with like, fucking girly thongs with lace and shit. I don't want that in my ass-crack, man, I'm just saying, that shit must itch like a motherfucker—"

"I really don't need to hear any more," Bob says. "Fine, okay, you come up with something, I'll help you pull it off. No more tuna fish."

"No more tuna fish," Frankie says. "I'll pinkie swear!"

"I'm not fucking pinkie swearing," Bob says.

They end up pouring out all of Pete's girly toiletry products and filling the empty bottles with olive oil. It's not the best idea Frankie's ever had, but it clearly entertains him, and it keeps Bob busy for about half an hour. After that he goes back to the bus and jerks off thinking about Brendon's ass.

That evening, Brendon's side stage during MCR's show. Bob notices him halfway through "Venom," and okay, it's possible that Bob pounds on his drum kit a little harder after that.

Brendon comes up to him afterward, right after Frankie's dumped an entire bottle of water over Bob's head and Bob's trying to mop it out of his eyes while simultaneously killing Frankie. He's a little distracted. And then Brendon's at his elbow, saying, "Great show."

"Um. Thanks," Bob says. His hair is dripping. "Is there a towel around here? Goddammit, Frankie, I thought Jamia had a chat with you about doing this shit—"

"You looked hot," Frankie says, all wide eyes. "And sweaty. I wanted to help you cool down!"

"I guess maybe this isn't a good time," Brendon says. He hands Bob a towel—a clean one, even. It's a fucking miracle.

"No, it's fine," Bob says. He wipes at his face. "Can we just—if certain people would stop acting like their mother raised them in a fucking barn—"

"I'm telling my mom you said that!" Frankie says.

"No, seriously, Iero, get the fuck out of here," Bob says. "I mean it. Look, there's Ray. He'll help you find some beer. Go bother him for a while."

"I won't forget this," Frankie hollers, but he's running off and blowing kisses over his shoulder, so Bob doesn't really care about whatever hell he'll have to pay later.

"Fuck. Sorry," Bob says to Brendon. "He's a little—he gets kind of wound up after shows."

"No, dude, I totally understand," Brendon says, grinning, and yeah, Bob bets he probably does.

"Okay. Um. Thanks for coming," Bob says. He's not entirely sure why Brendon's here, and he's not sure what to say next, or what to do with his hands. He scrubs the towel over his head to give himself a moment to think. "Did you..."

"Actually, uh, I wanted to talk to you," Brendon says. "About what you said on Monday. I was wondering if you'd be up for trying it out." His face is a little pink, but his hands are hanging loose at his sides, and he's looking straight at Bob: not hiding anything, not trying to play it off as a joke.

Shit. "Look, Brendon—"

"It's okay if you don't want to," Brendon says. He shrugs one shoulder. "I was just thinking, you know. I've been thinking about it."

Bob doesn't know how to respond to that. He hasn't seen this side of Brendon before, confident and serious, and it's throwing him off balance. He opens his mouth and says, "Uh, me too."

"Sweet," Brendon says, and somehow he's grinning. "So, you know, we could check it out, see what the deal is."

Bob feels like he just snorted a couple of lines of coke. Not that he does that shit anymore. "Okay," he says.

"So. Okay," Brendon says, and his eyes dart down to Bob's mouth and back up. Bob knows this is a terrible idea but he's going to do it anyway. He can't stop himself. He's not sure he wants to.

***

Panic's bus is empty, and Bob doesn't ask any questions, especially after Brendon wraps his arms around Bob's neck and says, "I'd really like it if you kissed me."

"I don't kiss on the mouth," Bob says, mostly to see how Brendon will react.

"Yeah, well, I _do_ ," Brendon says, and leans in.

Brendon doesn't mess around. His mouth's already open, his tongue licking at the chapped place on Bob's lower lip. Bob slides his hands down to rest on Brendon's ass, holding him close while he sucks on Brendon's tongue. It's fucking hot. Brendon's hard, his cock digging into Bob's thigh, and Bob wonders how long Brendon's been thinking about this—if he was thinking about it during the show, or after, as they walked back to the bus together. He wonders if Brendon's touched himself, thinking about it. He wonders if Brendon would let him watch.

Brendon takes a step backward, and Bob follows him blindly, unwilling to lose contact with Brendon's mouth. They stumble across the lounge like that, their feet tangling, and then Brendon pulls Bob down onto the couch with him, legs spreading to bracket Bob's hips.

"I'd really like it if you fucked me," Brendon says. "But not just yet. We need to do some other stuff first."

"Okay," Bob says. He doesn't even care what the fuck Brendon's saying; he's too intent on shoving Brendon's t-shirt up to his armpits, all that smooth pale skin and Brendon's pink nipples. They haven't turned on the main lights, just the track lighting that runs along the walls, and it's dim in the bus and Brendon looks like he's glowing. Bob thumbs Brendon's nipples and grinds his hips down, and Brendon arches his back, his mouth open. It's ridiculous. People shouldn't be allowed to look like that.

Bob's got half a mind to just rut senselessly against Brendon until they both come in their pants, but that's not what this is about. He pulls away from Brendon and sits on the couch with his feet planted on the floor. "Come here," he says.

Brendon stares at him, and for a moment Bob's convinced it isn't going to happen—that Brendon's having second thoughts or something, and he's about to make his apologies and pull himself together and go back to his own bus. But then Brendon stands up and unzips his jeans, watching Bob the entire time, and shoves his pants and underwear down to his knees. He's wearing red briefs. Was wearing. Bob's leaking into his shorts. Brendon looks like the best kind of porn, the kind where they seem like they're actually enjoying it, and Brendon's dick is hard and his ass is bare and Bob's ready for what comes next. He's pretty sure.

Brendon shuffles closer, hampered by his pants. It takes an awkward minute or two, but they get Brendon spread across Bob's lap, face turned sideways to rest against the couch cushion. Bob's having a hard time believing this is actually going to happen. He strokes his fingers along the cleft of Brendon's ass, and down further along the back of one of Brendon's thighs, hair prickling against his palm.

"Don't tease me," Brendon says. He pushes up onto his elbows. His hair's damp with sweat at the back of his neck. Bob combs his fingers through it, and Brendon shudders, drops his head. Bob slides his other hand back up to Brendon's ass and rubs two fingers against Brendon's hole. Brendon grunts and tries to jerk away, but Bob holds him down. Brendon's not that big, and Bob's a drummer.

"Stop it," Bob says.

"Bob, please," Brendon says, all red-faced and squirming around, his t-shirt rucked up around the middle of his back. Bob wants to leave fingerprints. Palm-prints. Fucking indentations.

"Hold still," Bob says, and quickly snaps one hand down onto Urie's bare ass.

Brendon exhales in a rush, but otherwise doesn't react: stops wriggling, lies there waiting for whatever Bob's going to do next. It's an engraved invitation. Bob smacks him again, a little harder this time, and when Brendon still doesn't do anything, he lays down a series of firm slaps. Brendon's skin goes white at first and then flushes red. Brendon isn't making any noise—Bob can barely even hear him breathing—so it's a surprise when Brendon says, "You need to—stop, I'm going to. Fuck."

"Really? Just from that?" Bob asks. He runs his palm over Brendon's ass, feels how hot the skin is.

" _Yes_ ," Brendon says. "Experiment completed, now it's time to fuck me."

"Okay," Bob says.

Brendon gets up and kicks off his shoes and pants, pulls his shirt over his head. His skin's glistening with sweat. "In my bunk," he says. "Not here."

Bob follows him into the bunks, his eyes on Brendon's ass the whole way. Brendon climbs into his bunk and sprawls on his belly, legs spread, and Bob just stands there and stares at him, struck dumb by the line of Brendon's back, the arch of his feet. He doesn't know what to do with himself.

"Take off your clothes," Brendon says.

"Right," Bob says, and does.

When he climbs into the bunk, Brendon spreads his legs further, giving Bob room to kneel between his thighs. It's not the right angle. Bob tugs on Brendon's hips, rearranging him, pulling Brendon up onto his knees, his shoulders and head still flat on the mattress. From here, his reddened ass looks obscene and inviting. Bob nudges forward, rubs the slick head of his cock against Brendon's hole.

Brendon passes back a bottle of lube and a condom, and Bob's glad he isn't going to have to mess around with the formalities. He can't wait any longer. He slicks up and slides two fingers into Brendon's ass, and Brendon noisily sucks in air, his muscles tensing. "Please," Brendon says, "now, I don't—"

Bob holds himself in one hand and presses in, a little uncertain, but Brendon opens easily around him, and Bob bottoms out with his balls nestled up behind Brendon's. It's better than he imagined. There's no way he would have been able to imagine this, Brendon hot and willing beneath him, his hair damp and curling and his arms cradling his head. It's amazing. It feels amazing, and Bob doesn't know why the fuck he held out for so long.

He twists his hips, not really fucking Brendon yet, just getting a feel for the territory. Brendon moves with him, absorbing it, and then he says, "Hold me down."

"Fuck," Bob says. He moves his hands from Brendon's hips, leans forward so he can grip Brendon's biceps, press him down against the mattress. Brendon moans, and if Bob had any doubts about this whole situation, that's enough to dissolve them. He pulls out of Brendon's ass and shoves back in—he's got good leverage like this, bracing himself against Brendon's arms, and even though the rubber's dulling the sensation some, he still knows he's going to come way sooner than he wants to.

After that one moan, Brendon's totally silent except for the harsh sandpaper rasp of his breathing. Bob wants him to make noise, wants him to break down and lose it, but even when he knows he's hitting the right spot, Brendon just keeps breathing in the same steady rhythm. Fucking singers and their fucking breath control. Bob knows all about it. Brendon's moving his hips, though, meeting each one of Bob's thrusts, and that's the sort of responsiveness that Bob looks for in a partner: a clear sign that he's into it.

Brendon shifts his shoulders against the mattress, trying to move or maybe just trying to get more comfortable, but either way, Bob shoves down hard on his arms, pinning him there. "Don't move," Bob says, and Brendon makes a sound, finally, a sharp, broken-off sound, and clenches down around Bob's dick. He's fucking _coming_ and Bob hasn't even touched him, hasn't done more than hold him down and fuck him.

Bob pulls out and strips off the condom, drops it onto the sheets—he'll worry about it later. Brendon's gone lax, but his hips are still propped up, his ass still red. Bob smacks him hard, once, and then jerks himself off fast and efficient, looking at the mark his hand left on Brendon's skin. He feels the surge building and building and then he's coming all over Brendon's ass and the backs of his thighs.

"God damn it, Bryar," Brendon says. "Now I'm going to have to wash my sheets."

***

Brendon finds him outside the lunch tent the next day. "So, it turns out I'm maybe a little kinky," he says.

"You're shitting me," Bob says. He gives Brendon one of the sandwiches he's picked up—ham and cheese on rye. It isn't very good.

"Mmm, my hero," Brendon says, peeling back the wax paper. "Are you trading me sandwiches for sex?"

"I wasn't going to eat it," Bob says. They're in fucking Kansas or somewhere, and it's disgustingly hot. Bob's grumpy. He didn't have a real shower last night, just a sponge bath in the sink, and he smells awful. Ray finished off all the beer. And Bob's been distracted all morning, he can't stop thinking about Brendon and Brendon's ass and the sweet, eager way Brendon kissed him.

"Ham and cheese!" Brendon says happily. "I will absolutely have sex with you again as long as you keep bringing me sandwiches."

"What if I don't bring you sandwiches," Bob says.

"I still might," Brendon says. "I could be convinced."

Bob knows he should stop it here: he should say, "Look, kid, it was fun, but I'm not really looking for any entanglements, you know?" Instead he says, "I'll get to work on my ten-point argument."

"Probably five points would be enough," Brendon says. He's still fiddling with the wax paper, picking off little bits of it, and he's smiling and looking up at Bob through his eyelashes, and Bob realizes: He's flirting with me. They're flirting with each other, standing out there in broad daylight, and Bob doesn't care. He doesn't care who knows.

Bob generally prides himself on being a fairly rational person, but he knows there's nothing rational about this, and yet he's still doing it. Panic's on after MCR that night, and Bob hangs around the stage, watching Brendon prance around, so full of energy and joy that Bob can't look away, can't believe he didn't see this in Brendon from the first moment they met.

"Hi," Brendon says afterward, soaked through with sweat and buzzing on his post-show high. His bandmates are swarming around him, loud and happy, but Bob can't pay attention to anyone but Brendon. He hopes his bus is empty. He'll take Brendon out into a field if all else fails.

"Um. You were good," Bob says. There's a drop of sweat making its way down Brendon's temple. Bob wants to wipe it off.

"High praise from you, Robert Bryar," Brendon says. "Am I going to get a reward?"

"It depends on whether your bus is empty," Bob says.

It is. They fuck twice that night, contorted in Brendon's tiny bunk, and in the morning Bob wakes Brendon up with a sloppy blowjob, one hand clapped over Brendon's mouth to keep him quiet. When they're done, Brendon throws a blanket over Bob's head and smuggles him off the bus.

"This isn't as stealthy as you think it is," Bob says. The blanket's hot and kind of smells like Pop-tarts. He's not sure he wants to be under there.

"Shh, you'll give yourself away!" Brendon says. "This is totally James Bond, okay, don't doubt my stealthiness."

"I don't think James Bond ever did this," Bob says.

"You just haven't been watching the right movies," Brendon says. "I'm going to give us James Bond code names. I get to be Octopussy."

"Of course," Bob says. He stumbles over something—he has no idea what, he can't fucking _see_ —and Brendon grabs his elbow, steadying him. Bob says, "I want to be Dr. Evil."

"That's from Austin Powers," Brendon says, indignant.

"From who?" Bob says, and grins to himself while Brendon splutters. He loves getting Brendon riled up. It's an impulse he tries not to examine too closely.

***

Bob feels like he's in some kind of sex fugue. Every day he wakes up with the intention of doing something productive before their show, and he eats a healthy breakfast and maybe chats with their merch girl, and then somehow he ends up in Brendon's bunk with his hands down Brendon's pants and Brendon moaning into his mouth. He's never really sure how it happens. One moment he'll be bickering with Frankie about whose turn it is to buy cigarettes, and the next thing he knows, he's got a lap full of warm Urie and a hard-on he can't ignore.

It's not like they're trying to keep it a secret, but it still takes Gerard more than a week to corner Bob in the bunks one morning, wearing his best Avenging The Innocents expression. "You're fucking Urie," Gerard whispers urgently.

"Yep," Bob says.

"You can't do that!" Gerard says, still whispering.

"You're fucking Ross," Bob says.

"It's not _fucking_ , we're in _love_ ," Gerard says.

Mikey's bunk curtain rustles. He says, "Gee, we can all hear you, you might as well stop whispering."

"You stay out of this," Gerard says. "Bob is going to get his heart broken, we can't just stand by while it happens—"

"I'm pretty sure my heart's going to be okay," Bob says. "Brendon's too. Uh, but thanks for the concern."

"I'm just looking out for you," Gerard says, wide-eyed and earnest. "We don't want you to get hurt, Bob, who will keep the beat of our hearts if you quit in despair?"

Bob frowns, suspicious. There's a snort of laughter from one of the bunks, and Bob says, "You assholes are fucking with me, aren't you."

Gerard grins. "Had you going there, didn't I? You're so goddamn gullible, Bryar."

"Shut up," Bob says. "Trusting your friends is a _positive_ quality."

"Don't fuck it up, man," Gerard says. "Urie's a good kid. I don't want Ryan bitching at me about how I can't keep my band in line."

"You can't keep _yourself_ in line," Mikey says.

"I'm still the boss here! Don't forget it!" Gerard says.

"For fuck's sake," Bob says, and stomps outside for a smoke. He's physically incapable of dealing with Team Way until he's had coffee and at least two cigarettes. He's going to call Brian and tell him that Gerard's gone over the deep end. Maybe Brian will swoop in to stage an intervention, and Bob won't have to deal with the crazy motherfuckers in his band for a few days.

Frankie's outside, mysteriously awake before noon, leaning against the side of the bus with a cigarette and his phone. "Hey, I've gotta go," he says, catching Bob's eye, "Bobert himself just put in an appearance and we need to have words. Yeah. Yeah, I love you too, baby." He snaps his phone shut and turns to stare at Bob.

"Whatever you're going to say, I don't want to hear it," Bob says.

"No, dude, seriously, Jamia says hi and that she misses your cute tushy. That's it! That's seriously all I wanted to say," Frankie says, waving his cigarette around. "I wasn't going to say a word about how you're fucking one-fourth of Panic."

"Fuck off, Iero," Bob says. "I don't know when you motherfuckers decided that what I do with my dick is your business, but it isn't."

Frankie rolls his eyes. "Settle _down_ , man. I'm just giving you a hard time, you think I really give a shit whose fertile fields you're plowing? I bet Urie's all succulent and ripe for the picking—"

"We're no longer friends," Bob says, and then Frankie pretends to start crying and makes Bob comfort him. Bob needs to find some new people to hang out with.

After that, he's expecting to be lectured by the non-Brendon portions of Panic, but either they haven't figured out what's going on or they're smarter than everyone else Bob knows, because all that happens is Jon talks to him for a few minutes about the sound setup and then offers Bob a beer.

It's not like it's really worth discussing. Bob's not trying to fuck with Brendon's head—he's meant everything he's said; he likes hanging out with Brendon, and the sex is seriously incendiary, and they're both having a good time. That's all there is to it. It isn't complicated. Nobody's emotions are involved. They'll have fun for the rest of the summer and then that'll be it; they'll go their separate ways.

***

"You need a haircut," Brendon says, squirming around on the sofa to rest his head on Bob's lap. "You have lady hair."

"And?" Bob says. He takes another swig from his beer bottle. "You stay away from my hair."

"He was going to go to beauty school," Ryan says. "If the band hadn't worked out. So now he thinks he knows about hairdressing."

"I _do_ know about hairdressing," Brendon says. "I know all about it. Spencer will tell you, okay, I gave him a _beautiful_ haircut, he was the envy of the tour—"

"You're not supposed to talk about it," Ryan says. "Remember?"

"I do what I want," Brendon says, "I roll with _twelve gangs_." Mikey's been on a big South Park kick lately, and the DVDs have been on every time Brendon's been on the MCR bus. It's getting a little out of hand.

"Sure," Ryan says. He puts his headphones on and goes back to scribbling in his notebook. The way these kids deal with Brendon's antics reminds Bob a lot of the way he deals with Frankie: indulge him up to a certain point, and then go back to whatever it was you were doing before. Playtime's over. Time to be a big boy and go entertain yourself for a while.

Brendon has Bob now, though: new and shiny. "I'm serious, I'm going to cut your hair," Brendon says. "Can I? I'm really good at it, I _promise_. You'll be the talk of the town."

"Maybe," Bob says. He drains his beer and sets the bottle on the end table. "What do I get out of it?"

"Me," Brendon says, and grins.

It's not like Bob can argue with that.

Brendon makes a big fuss over getting Bob situated on a beer cooler outside, a pink towel draped over his shoulders. Brendon's found a pair of big silver shears somewhere, and he keeps snipping them together, like some sort of maniacal hair-cutting criminal mastermind.

It's making Bob a little nervous. "Keep those things away from my ear, Urie," he says. "If you cut off something important, I'm going to tell Brian to sue you."

"I think you're lying," Brendon says. "But you don't have to worry, I won't cut you. Or only maybe a little, but it'll be somewhere nobody can see. You'll still be able to play tonight!"

"I'm so reassured," Bob says.

It takes Brendon half an hour. Bob sits there with his towel, his bare feet in the grass. Other people pass by and catcall, make fun of Bob's hair and Brendon's scissor-related skills. Bob's too relaxed to do anything about it. He should probably be fearing for his life, but if worst comes to worst he'll just buzz his head again; and Brendon's hands are cool and careful when they brush against the back of Bob's neck, sweeping hair away. Bob's going to get laid tonight. Maybe twice.

"Oh," Brendon says. "Hmm."

Bob closes his eyes. "Please tell me you didn't fuck up my hair."

"Well, um. You might want to buzz it?" Brendon says. "I mean, it looks kind of sweet, like, if you're into that old-school punk DIY haircuts aesthetic."

"Jesus Christ," Bob says. "Get me a mirror, I swear to God—"

It's not the worst haircut Bob's ever had—that honor still goes to the time his three-year-old cousin went to town with his aunt's knitting scissors. But it's pretty bad. Brendon did some sort of lopsided bowl-cut that's too long on one side and too short on the top. "You're buzzing this for me," Bob says.

"I can do that," Brendon says. He looks a little sheepish. "Um. Sorry."

"It'll grow back," Bob says. He pretty much knew this would end badly; it's hard to get upset. "You're not getting anywhere near my hair again, though."

They have to go back to the bus to get Bob's electric razor. Gerard's sitting in the lounge, and his fucking seal bark brings the rest of the guys out of the woodwork. Pictures are taken. Brendon is commended for giving Bob the best haircut any of them have seen, _ever_.

"You owe me for this," Bob says, when Brendon's got him seated on the toilet and is wielding the razor with more skill than Bob expected. He's probably been practicing on Walker. "There's photographic evidence now. Frankie's going to put it on the internet."

"You don't need to guilt me into having sex with you," Brendon says. "I'm going to let you in my pants anyway." He turns off the razor and kisses the top of Bob's head. Bob glances at him in the mirror, surprised, but Brendon's frowning at Bob's neck, brushing away stray hairs. Their eyes don't meet.

They're in a hotel that night. Bob ties Brendon to the headboard with some frilly scarf thing that Brendon stole from Ryan's suitcase. It's probably one of the best nights of Bob's life.

***

Bob's halfway asleep when he hears his name, and his brain tunes in without him really wanting it to. He opens one eye. Frankie's sitting beside him on the sofa, talking on the phone and waving his free hand in the air like he's conducting a goddamn orchestra.

"...And Bob's _dating someone_ ," Frankie says, "you wouldn't believe it, dude, it's fucking _Brendon Urie_. Yeah, from Panic. No, I don't know, man, it's cradle-robbing city out here or some shit, maybe they're spiking the water, I don't fucking know—"

"Give me the phone," Bob says. "Who are you talking to? Is that Brian?"

"He says he wants the phone," Frankie says. "You wanna talk to him? Oh, never mind, he says he's going back to sleep." Frankie shoves his hand in Bob's face, keeping him from sitting up and grabbing for the phone. "Okay, yep. Yeah, I'll call you."

"Goddammit, Frankie," Bob groans, shoving at Frankie's arm until he gets his goddamn dirty hand out of Bob's face. "Why the fuck are you—you told Brian I'm _dating_ him?"

Frankie closes his phone. "Wait, you're dating Brian?" he says, and goes into a fit of obnoxious hyena giggling when Bob scowls at him.

"You fuckers need to leave me alone," Bob says. "It's _nothing_ , it's just. We're just screwing around."

"Sure," Frankie says, grinning, and Bob hates that shit, that way Frankie pretends to agree with whatever you're saying, and then goes around and gossips with Mikey about how you're full of it. Those two are like little old ladies working the phone tree.

He lets it go. The more he protests, the more Frankie is going to make a big deal about it, and the _last_ thing Bob wants to do is talk about whatever it is he's doing with Brendon. The sex or the—whatever it is they're doing.

He starts spending more time on the Panic bus. If those guys have any opinions about what's happening, they keep it to themselves, and they don't make gagging noises when they catch Bob and Brendon kissing in the lounge.

He and Brendon meet up for lunch most days; Brendon's usually just woken up, and he's sleepy and pliant and willing to lean against Bob's shoulder, yawning, while they eat their sandwiches. It's a good ritual. One day Brendon shows up frowning: not his usual expression, and Bob sits up straighter, instantly on his guard.

"I ran into Frank," Brendon says. "Have you—um, have you been talking about me? With those guys?"

"What'd he say to you," Bob says. He's going to kill Frankie.

Brendon shrugs. "Just, you know. He said I've been keeping you busy, so the rumors must be true. I think he was joking, but I—"

"I'm going to kill him," Bob says. "I haven't told those fuckers anything, Bren, okay—"

"I know," Brendon says. "I was just, uh. It was a little unexpected."

Bob goes to find Frankie after lunch. The dipshit's playing Guitar Hero with Mikey, and when Bob comes into the lounge he looks up and blinks like he hasn't done a goddamn thing.

"Outside," Bob says, and heads out without waiting to see if Frankie's going to follow him.

Frankie does. "I'm in the middle of a game, dude," he says, and kicks the bus door shut behind him. "Is this important? I know I said we'd go on a beer run later, but—"

"What you said to Brendon," Bob says. "It's none of your fucking _business_ , Frankie. You need to leave him the fuck alone."

"Dude, chill out," Frankie says, raising his hands and taking a step back. "I was just kidding, it's not. Since when are you this overprotective?"

"I'm not," Bob says, and runs a hand over his face. "Fuck."

"Look, I'll apologize to him if you want," Frankie says. "I really didn't mean anything by it, I was just fucking around."

"It doesn't matter," Bob says. "It wasn't even—just forget it, I'm being an ass."

Frankie shakes his head and pats Bob on the shoulder. "Dude, you're in so much trouble."

Bob says, "I know."

***

"I want you to listen to my new song," Brendon says. "Do you want to hear it? I wrote it just for you, Bob, let me play my beautiful music—"

"That's a total lie," Jon says. "Yesterday you were saying you wrote the song for _me_."

"You didn't bring me bacon this morning," Brendon says. " _Bacon_. From a pig!"

Bob crosses his arms behind his head and leans back against the wall, feeling smug. Brendon had been _really_ grateful.

"I'm telling Ryan," Jon says. Brendon and Ryan are having some sort of weird competition about not eating animal products. Bob's done his best to stay out of it.

"Ryan already lost, I saw him eating a hot dog on Tuesday," Brendon says. "So there! Bob, come listen to my song."

"Sure," Bob says. He stands up and follows Brendon to the back lounge, which is a mess of guitars and keyboards and Brendon's toy piano. Brendon sits down in the middle of the floor and starts tuning one of the guitars, strumming a few chords and muttering to himself.

There's a notebook lying open on one of the sofas, pages covered in Brendon's messy handwriting. Bob picks it up. "I held the prayer in my mouth for a long time before I spit it out," it says, and then, crossed out: "There are no beginnings here, only things that end."

"Did you write this?" Bob asks, which is a really dumb question.

Brendon looks up. "What? Oh, the—yeah, it's just shit I'm working on. Like, for lyrics. Here, sit down and listen to this."

Brendon picks out a slow melody on the guitar and then closes his eyes and starts singing. His voice is low and rough, not as polished as it usually sounds when he's performing. Bob's pretty sure the song's about Brendon's parents—the lyrics aren't overt, but it's about growing up and disappointing people, making mistakes, and Brendon's told him enough that Bob can figure it out.

Bob's known for a while that there's more going on with Brendon than meets the eye, but he's usually not reminded of it so forcefully. When Brendon finishes, he taps his pick against the body of the guitar and doesn't look up, and Bob says, "That was really great."

"Yeah?" Brendon says, and he looks at Bob then and smiles, quick and sweet.

"You know I wouldn't say that if it wasn't true," Bob says. "Is that going on your next album?"

"Maybe," Brendon says. "You want to hear another one?"

"Yeah," Bob says.

***

On Thursday, Ryan comes back to the Panic bus around noon, with a Ring Pop on his left ring finger and a blissful expression on his face. Bob's seriously never seen the kid smile like this.

"Hmpf," Brendon says. "What, did Gerard propose or something?"

Ryan rolls his eyes. "It's a fucking Ring Pop, Brendon."

"So why are you smirking," Brendon says.

"Well. He gave me a Ring Pop," Ryan says, and goes back to beaming.

Brendon's weird all afternoon, sulking in that way where he gets quiet and spends a lot of time staring off into space. Bob knows what's going through his head—thinks he knows, can make an educated guess—and he wants to reassure Brendon, but he can't do it, not in good conscience, as much as every careless part of him wants to.

The thing is, Bob knows what's going to happen. He and Brendon will spend a while texting each other, talking on the phone every night; maybe Bob will fly out to see a few of Panic's shows, or vice versa. They'll have some really awesome reunion sex. And eventually the fact that they're both busy, successful musicians will mean they haven't seen each other in three months, and Brendon will be sad and passive-aggressive, and Bob will feel guilty and miserable, and that'll be the end. These things don't last. That's how life is.

That night, Brendon texts him a little before 1am: _come entretain me pls_ , and that's not a request that Bob's going to deny.

Brendon's waiting outside the Panic bus, his face a pale blur in the darkness, the only light provided by the full moon. There's noise coming from somewhere else, the post-show parties still in full swing, but Brendon's alone, a cigarette glowing in his right hand.

"I thought you didn't smoke," Bob says.

"I actually do," Brendon says. "Sometimes. Ryan doesn't know everything."

"What's going on," Bob says. He thought he was being summoned for a booty call, but this is different—Brendon's posture is all wrong, his free arm hooked across his belly, his shoulders slumped. Something's up.

"Nothing," Brendon says. "Fighting with Spencer. It's not a big deal."

"Okay," Bob says.

"He just thinks he's the fucking ultimate source of wisdom or something, and he—it fucking pisses me off." Brendon ashes his cigarette onto the ground. "It doesn't matter. Too much time on the bus. You know how it goes."

"I know," Bob says. He puts one hand on Brendon's hip, tucks his fingers underneath Brendon's t-shirt. Brendon's skin is a little clammy with drying sweat. He must have been out here for a while. "You want to talk about it?"

"Not really," Brendon says. He drops his cigarette and crushes it out with his heel. "You could make out with me, though. I bet that would help."

Brendon tastes like smoke, of course, and a little bit like alcohol—not beer, something sharper than that, vodka or whiskey. It's been a long time since Bob's had more than a couple of beers. They all cut back on the drinking when Gerard got sober, and it's strange to taste that burn on Brendon's tongue, that one-shot-too-many that Bob remembers so well.

"You're drunk," Bob says, pulling back.

"No," Brendon says. "I was earlier. Now I'm just tipsy. Kiss me again." He closes his eyes and leans up, lips parted, and Bob meets him halfway.

They kiss for a while, not urgent. Brendon wraps his arms around Bob's waist and keeps a bit of distance, his legs and hips not touching Bob's, and it's nice like this. So often they're rushed, fumbling in a narrow bunk, ten stolen minutes before sound check and that's all well and good, Bob's not complaining, but he likes being able to take his time. He likes the soft noises Brendon makes when Bob runs his fingers up and down the knobs of Brendon's spine.

Brendon's the one who breaks it off finally. He kisses Bob's jaw and the side of his neck, and says, "Will you sleep with me tonight? Like, all night. In my bunk. I just don't—"

"Yeah," Bob says. "Sure."

He wakes up in the morning with Brendon lying half on top of him, his face tucked against Bob's neck. He's muttering in his sleep, nonsense words and something about Spencer. Bob's sweaty and his arm's falling asleep. He needs to piss. He ignores all of it; runs his fingers through Brendon's hair and lets him sleep.

He knows what's happening. He recognizes the signs in himself. They have two more weeks of Warped and then it's back to their regular lives—the life Bob had before this, whatever it was. He keeps away from Brendon for the rest of the day, and when Brendon texts him a sad face later that evening, Bob says, _tired, sorry. 2morrw?_ , and turns off his phone before Brendon can reply.

THE END  



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